The Awakening
by Cara Mia
Summary: CHAPTERS 2-5 RE-EDITED.  AH/AU: "Master, is it strange that the only time I feel truly alive is when I'm wearing your collar?"
1. Sugar, Spice and Everything Nice

**Disclaimer: _The Twilight Saga _and all associated characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer and Little, Brown & Company. Any and all original characters are the property of the author. No profit is being made from this story.**

**A/N: This story will be unlike anything I have ever written, dealing with themes that are not exactly everyone's particular cup of tea. So, if the idea of a Dominant/submissive relationship between two consenting adults is something that you are uncomfortable with, I suggest you turn back now. If, however, the idea of seeing two people grow, mature and find peace within themselves and with each other, read on, and let me know what you think.**

**As you can imagine, this is an All-Human story, set in an Alternate Universe to the one created by Meyer - there are no supernatural creatures in this story, and the only demons are the ones in their heads. I've tried my best to maintain as much character integrity in the story as possible, and though some relationships/interactions differ from Meyer, hopefully you will think I have succeeded in doing so. **

**X-X-X-X-X**

**"Master, is it strange that the only time I feel truly alive is when I wear your collar?"**

**X-X-X-X-X**

**I: SUGAR, SPICE and EVERYTHING NICE**

**October, 2003**

It was autumn in New York.

The city had finally shed the final vestiges of Indian summer and there was a decided crispness in the air.

From the three-sided glass box of his executive office, Carlisle Wellesley Cullen could see the city laid out before him in all her glory – the red and gold brilliance of Central Park, the silver and grey of her sentinel buildings and the sharp black uniform of her army of dedicated serfs.

As Chairman and CEO of one of the oldest and most successful companies in the world, Carlisle was already hard at work, on a conference call at just past eight in the morning with a junior executive from the London branch of his family's historic company.

"China is where it's at, if you'll pardon the slang, Mr. Cullen."

Carlisle lifted a heavy blonde brow and turned away from the glass wall, levelling his assessing gaze on the young man on the video screen. "Is that so, Mr. Chase?"

Thousands of miles away in the London headquarters of Cullen Enterprise, James Chase nodded assertively. "Yes, sir."

He proceeded with his pitch, citing market trends and quoting various industry standards to support his stance. "Quite frankly, sir, I believe CE is making a grave error in not investing more heavily in that region, especially given the numbers that are coming out of that market."

Carlisle caught himself before he rolled his eyes. "Forgive me the old fashioned quirk of caution in big business, Mr. Chase," he began drolly, "but, you'll find that I require more than simple market trends to pique my interest, or that of the board. And given my scepticism where China is concerned, I suggest you check your numbers again. A thorough _objective _assessment on the link by Friday, two weeks from now?" he framed his words as a request, but they both knew it was an order. "Try Grant over at IRO; he owes me a favour."

There was irritation in the younger man's eyes but they both knew that his hands were tied. "Yes sir, Mr. Cullen. My department will get back to you by then."

Carlisle nodded in satisfaction and clicked off, just as his personal assistant knocked and entered.

"Vivian, perfect timing. Send a secure memo to Varner over at CE London. I want him to keep a closer eye on James Chase," he said, rolling his cuffs back down his arms.

"Is there a problem, sir?" she asked, slipping tortoiseshell frames on her face and making a note in her BlackBerry.

"Not if I can help it. The kid's a brilliant tracker, but a wildcard and I'd rather not get burned. Tell Varner to expect a call first thing tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir. You have a nine o'clock at NYU – breakfast at The Torch Club," she reminded him. "Sasha McKinley is threatening to have your head if you reschedule on her again. I already buzzed Henry. Your car is waiting downstairs."

She handed him a travel mug and a thermos. "Green tea – don't make that face," she said when he did just that. "I know you've been here since six and I shudder to think of how much caffeine you've already had since then. Besides, you'll need to be as Zen as a sensei when Ms. McKinley hits on you while simultaneously asking you for money. She's looking for husband number five, you know."

"Thanks, Vivian," he replied with an affectionate smile.

Vivian Humphrey was the lifeblood of Carlisle's department. She had started out in the typing pool at CE in the late '60s and her steady efficiency had helped her move up in the company, even as her red hair and curvaceous body had invoked more than one envious detractor in the form of a pampered executive wife.

She had been assigned to his office when he first joined the ranks fresh out of business school twenty years earlier and, as he had advanced in the company and eventually taken over the position of Chairman and CEO from his father, he had brought her up with him. She was not overly impressed by his surname or his stock portfolio and kept his office – and life – running like a well-oiled machine.

"Anything else?" he asked, as she helped him into his coat.

"Yes, Esme left a message to ask if you were free for brunch at the club on Sunday. She thought it would be a good time to catch up since the twins were going to be in the city for the weekend."

"How does she know these things?" Carlisle marvelled as they exited his office and headed for his private elevator. "Edward only called about The Met last night."

"It's called email," Vivian deadpanned. "What should I say?"

"Tell her yes, of course." He hit the call button. "It'll be nice. Esme hasn't seen the kids in a while."

"That would be _w__rong_. She had dinner with them in Hartford last month when she went out for Vera's baby shower."

Carlisle's brow wrinkled as he stepped onto the elevator. "How do _you _know that?"

Vivian peered out at him over the half-moon frames of her spectacles. "I'd tell you but then I'd have to kill you," she replied with a droll smile.

Carlisle was still chuckling as the elevator made its way to the lobby of the building. Stepping off, he marvelled as always at the magnificence of the new building that housed the company his ancestors had built nearly three-hundred years ago.

The main lobby spread out over half a city block and outside, it was a sleek onyx lance that speared the New York skyline, a symbol of the colossal power of the Cullen family.

This was his fortress.

This city was his empire.

Carlisle Cullen was King.

X-X-X-X-X

"It's way too fucking early to be out here selling cookies."

Leah Clearwater was huddled in her leather bomber jacket, sucking the contents of her disposable Starbucks cup like a lifeline. She was in a makeshift carnival booth decked out in the violet and white colours of New York University in a prime spot in Washington Square Park, just beyond the shadow of the park's famous Arch.

Before her was an array of fresh-baked goodies, intended to tempt the harried New Yorkers that hustled through the park during the morning rush to part with their hard earned cash. She was half-asleep and near freezing in her skinny jeans, combat-boots and tight Pink Floyd concert-T, all in the name of charity.

Isabella Swan shot her friend a censoring glare as she straightened a display of chocolate frosted cupcakes. "Will you cool it with the profanities?"

Leah scowled in answer. It should have marred her face – instead, with her flashing silver-gold eyes and spiky cap of black hair, it only made her more fiercely beautiful.

"Besides, it's just about eight," Bella continued, glancing at the watch on her wrist.

"_Exactly_. Too. Fucking. Early. I'm half-asleep, Bella," Leah replied, nearly whimpering as she swallowed the last of her triple-shot latte.

"Well, maybe you wouldn't be half-asleep if you'd actually gotten some last night," Bella pointed out with a prudent sniff. "That T-shirt looks mighty familiar. Surely it couldn't be the same one you had on last night?" she added sarcastically.

Leah rolled her eyes and pitched the empty cup into a nearby garbage can with the precision of a NBA shooting-guard. "Whatever, Sister Mary-Stick-in-the-mud, need I remind you that me and this T-shirt are doing your overachieving ass a favour? I could still be doing the horizontal mambo with that guy from the bar last night. Instead, I hauled ass all the way from Brooklyn to help you because I promised. Should I leave?" she asked, lifting a perfectly arched brow.

"Don't make it seem like you're being completely altruistic, Mother Teresa," Bella shot back. "You think I don't know that you've got money riding on this bake sale?"

Leah gave a wicked grin and a carefree shrug. "I needed _something_ to show for waking up at the ass-crack of dawn."

"How about the satisfaction of knowing you're doing a good deed?"

"_Pfft_!"

"You're incorrigible."

"Sticks and stones, Bella," Leah said, throwing an affectionate grin at her friend, "sticks and stones!"

X-X-X-X-X

Breakfast with Sasha McKinley had gone as well as it could have.

He had managed that Zen calm. Though, admittedly, it had less to do with the green tea he continued to begrudgingly sip and more to do with the fact that husband number five had already fallen into Sasha's slippery net.

Poor bastard.

Vasilii was a Georgian Prince Sasha had all but crowed with glee but, as evidenced by the utterly hideous canary diamond on her finger – or his choice in consort, if we were being completely honest – a royal bloodline clearly did not equal good taste.

"Be sure to stop by the Arch before you head back to your office, Carlisle," she invited before they parted ways outside the steps of club. "The freshman class are having their annual bake-sale. The proceeds go to _Toys for Tots_ at Christmas."

It was more curiosity than a sense of civic duty that found Carlisle instructing his driver to meet him opposite the northern entrance of the park and making his way to the violet and white banners he could see fluttering in the near distance.

Business was good apparently. Most of the booths were busy, one in particular. As most of the customers were male, Carlisle found himself wondering if it was due to the baking skills of the blonde co-ed running the stall or her miniskirt that flashed toned mile-long legs encased in knee-high boots.

She flashed him a killer smile as she caught sight of him standing on the periphery of her booth. She cocked her shapely hip out like a Hollywood vamp. "Like what you see?"

It was unclear whether she was referring to her selection or herself. Either way, her jade-green eyes were all-too-aware for a girl as young as she so clearly was under her heavy makeup.

"Just browsing," Carlisle replied neutrally, coming closer.

"Well, browse all you want. There's no price for looking... although I hope that's not all you'll do," she invited, with a flirtatious grin, before her attention was diverted by a customer actually making a purchase.

He wandered to the end of the table and was just about to select an innocent looking blueberry muffin, when a soft female voice sounded a warning from the next table over.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Carlisle's attention shifted to a small brunette. Thick glossy chestnut waves tumbled out of a blue-grey crotchet hat and a chunky green scarf circled her neck to combat the early fall chill.

He lifted a brow in inquiry.

"Lauren talks a good game but, it's just that – _talk_," she explained, pointing to the blonde who had tried to foist her goods on him before becoming distracted. "Those muffins could break a plate-glass window… or a tooth," she continued dryly.

Her booth mate, a striking, leggy Amazon with flawless copper skin, shot them a curious look as she helped a customer. "She's right," she confirmed with a smirk, giving him a bold onceover.

A surprised grin slashed across his face and his apparent saviour gave a sheepish smile in return.

It was the smile that most caught his attention – bashful; shaping a soft cupid's-bow mouth in a heart-shaped face.

"So, what would _you_ recommend?" he found himself asking seriously, drifting over to her table. Like her neighbour, she had an array of baked goods laid out neatly on the table – artistically frosted cupcakes and fluffy muffins in little boxes, and giant cookies, wrapped in colourful sheets of plastic. Whoever she was, she and her partner clearly took this bake-sale even more seriously than the blonde.

"Nothing off of _that_ table," she muttered under her breath, and Carlisle gave a helpless bark of laughter.

"Duly noted," he said, still chuckling. "How about from off your table, then?"

The girl cocked her head thoughtfully and pointed to his travel-mug. "What're you drinking?"

Carlisle's brow furrowed as he looked at her then his mug questioningly.

"Seriously," she gave an encouraging smile, "what are you drinking?"

"Green tea," he admitted with a frown.

"Sweetened?"

"No."

Her brow furrowed as she surveyed her selections, before she picked up a box containing a large muffin with caramelised apple bits on top. "Apple-spice muffin," she said, holding it out to him.

"Did you bake this yourself?" he asked sceptically.

"Yes," she nodded, still holding out her offering.

For some inexplicable reason, Carlisle couldn't resist the urge to bait her. "How do I know that _this_ muffin won't break a plate glass window… or a tooth?" he asked. Teasing anyone, much less a complete stranger, was so uncharacteristic of him, but he was rewarded for his efforts by a beautiful blush that flooded her cheeks.

"You won't unless you try. If you don't like it, you don't have to pay for it. _Chicken_?" she challenged.

He watched the Amazon lift a questioning brow, as she listened to their exchange with half-an-ear.

"Hardly," Carlisle returned, taking the box from her hand. She watched him anxiously as he took a hearty bite and barely suppressed a moan. He swore he tasted ambrosia. The muffin was soft and moist but not too sweet. The taste of both sweet and tart apples and the spice of cinnamon, nutmeg and a hint of cardamom, exploded over his taste buds.

"This is _incredible_," he murmured in appreciation.

"Thank you," she beamed at the praise, utterly transforming her face into unforgettable beauty.

Carlisle felt a low visceral tug that rocked his very core. It was a reaction he had no business feeling for a girl so young, especially one who looked so achingly innocent. His gaze dropped like a stone from her face.

"How much are they?" he asked hastily.

"Three dollars each."

"I'll take all six," Carlisle offered. Fishing in the folds of his pea-coat for his money-clip, he missed the pleasant surprise that flashed across her face.

"Really?" she asked breathlessly even as she hastily packed the six muffins into a larger box.

He pulled a crisp fifty-dollar note from his clip and pressed it into her small cool hand, taking the box from her in one smooth motion. When her gaze was diverted as she sorted out his change, Carlisle seized the opportunity and walked quickly away.

"Sir?" her alarmed voice called after him. "Sir! What about your change?"

He cursed viciously in his head as that yearning became even more persistent, but he ruthlessly ignored it and her voice and kept walking.

X-X-X-X-X

Bella was doing an internal dance of joy at the prospect of having sold all six of the apple-spice muffins she'd brought to the sale. They were an experiment of sorts, and so she had truly been wracked with nerves as she used the blonde Adonis as a guinea-pig. But, the muffins were a hit, clearly, as he was taking all six off her hands. She was looking forward to another uncharacteristically bold exchange with the total stranger when she looked up to hand over his change, only to see him striding quickly away from the booth.

"Sir?" she called out in alarm. "Sir! What about your change?"

If he heard her, he gave no indication, and Bella was left holding three tens and two crumpled singles in distress as she watched the tall broad-shouldered man disappear into the crowd. "That's weird," she muttered.

"What's weird?" Leah turned to her with a frown.

"My apple-spice guinea-pig. He bought all six of them, then just booked it without even waiting for his change," she said, showing her friend the crumpled cash. Her gaze drifted back out into the crowd, "Maybe I should try to catch him."

"What? Are you nuts, Bella? That's a thirty-dollar tip!" Leah snatched the money from Bella's fist and stuck it back into the lockbox that contained the morning's earnings.

"It's not right, Leah!"

"Oh, please," Leah waved it off, and set out six chocolate-chip muffins to replace the apple-spice. "Did you see that suit, those shoes?" she inquired. "That Hermès briefcase and the Rolex on his wrist were not knockoffs. Trust me, Bella, he can afford it."

Bella heaved a heavy sigh. She'd known Leah long enough to recognise when she was fighting a losing battle. Not to mention, her friend was probably right.

Things had settled down momentarily, so she gave herself over to her thoughts on their encounter.

Even a complete novice such as herself had been able to see the quality and expense of his garments. She had watched him with abject fascination from the corner of her eye as he perused Lauren Mallory's 'selection'. Tall, blonde and sophisticated, he was completely unlike anyone she had ever seen before her move to New York.

Her warning to him had been purely instinctive and completely uncharacteristic. She was still surprised that she had managed to speak coherently, without coming off like a complete fool.

His accent was crisp, cultured upper-class New York. Bella gave an involuntary shiver as she recalled the unfamiliar pull low in her belly and the flood of warmth in her core when he'd locked brilliant emerald-green eyes on her face.

Chances were that she would never see him again. There were nearly two million people on this island alone. But she knew she would not soon forget their five minute conversation, or that lean, foxy face with its high cheekbones and remarkable eyes that dilated with pleasure on tasting the muffin.

Bella gave a wistful sigh.

Leah's head whipped toward her. "What was that?" she demanded.

"Nothing!" Bella replied quickly, cursing the bright colour that suffused her cheeks – a dead giveaway.

"Geez, Bella, you can't lie for shit!" Leah said with a disbelieving laugh. "What was that schoolgirl sigh? Are you reliving your flirty play-by-play with the sexy blonde DILF?" she asked, flashing a flirtatious grin to a male customer who bought three oatmeal-raisin cookies.

"I was not!" Bella denied hotly, praying Leah would drop the conversation in front of the returning customers. Of course, her prayers were in vain. Leah Clearwater did not have an appropriate-conversation-according-to-context filter as part of her genetic makeup.

"Flirting, or reliving the play-by-play?" Lauren chose that moment to butt in. "Admit it, Bella; you were _so_ totally flirting with the DILF! Who you poached from me, by the way," she added nastily.

Bella's jaw dropped in denial, but Leah cut in before she could defend herself.

"Put a sock in it, Lauren!" Leah growled. "The only thing Bella did was save the poor man a future involving dentures and _Poligrip_. She was doing her good deed for the day."

Lauren's embarrassed flush rivalled Bella's on Leah's insult. "Whatever!" she huffed, flouncing back to her table.

Bella rolled her eyes in annoyance and turned to her friend. "That girl is such a witch!" she muttered under her breath. "Thanks, Leah."

"No problem, Bella," she replied with a predatory smile, "I live to piss girls like her off…. Even though she _was_ right; you _were_ so totally flirting with the DILF!"

Colour completely suffused Bella's face, "For the last time, I was not flirting with the DILF!" she nearly shrieked.

"Oh, so you admit he's a DILF, though?" Leah continued mercilessly, hip-checking her friend.

True to form, Bella stumbled, and tried to ignore Leah's laughter. "You know what, Clearwater?" she huffed. "_You _put a sock in it!"

TBC…


	2. The Law of the Jungle

**Disclaimer: _The Twilight Saga _and all associated characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer and Little, Brown & Company. Any and all original characters are the property of the author. No profit is being made from this story.**

**X-X-X-X-X**

******"Master, is it strange that the only time I feel truly alive is when I wear your collar?"**

X-X-X-X-X

**II: THE LAW OF THE JUNGLE**

**December 2003**

"Any gropers out there?"

The makeshift party headquarters of 994 Park Avenue was a hotbed of activity behind the scenes of _the_ holiday event of the year – Cullen Enterprise's annual end-of-year party. The theme was _Vintage Hollywood _and the crème de la crème of New York's elite was busy getting drunk on champagne and sidecars all on Carlisle Cullen's dime.

For her role in the night's performance, Bella was part of the catering staff, charged with keeping Cullen's fat-cat guests and their dames happy. As the night progressed and the alcohol flowed freely, history was sure to repeat itself making her and many other unsuspecting waitresses (and more than a few waiters, as well) the focus of some pervert's unwanted attention.

Hence the not entirely inappropriate question.

"It's the Upper East Side – when are they never at these shindigs?" Leah, her unfortunate co-star in tonight's performance, growled in answer beside her as they hurriedly refilled their trays with the night's offerings. "It's a recipe for disaster – bad food, free booze and nonexistent consciences. At this rate we should be getting hazard pay."

"Take it up with the boss," Bella replied dryly.

"That's not all I gotta take up with her. What is _up_ with these uniforms?"

In keeping with the party's theme, the female wait-staff were dressed as '40's cigarette girls, complete with prerequisite flounced miniskirt, cockeyed hat and cigarette box tray all in the traditional blue, green and gold of the ancient Cullen crest. The fishnets and high-heels that completed the ensemble were not exactly conducive to aiding their quest to avoid the clutches of an over-age and inappropriately amorous Lothario too bombed out of his mind to remember his manners. Playing an adult version of tag was not exactly what Bella had in mind for gainful employment.

_And the night was yet young_, Bella sighed heavily. "Same thing that's up with the food," she replied, wrinkling her nose at a particularly sad-looking platter of crudités.

Leah knew she was tempting fate even as she popped what was masquerading as a stuffed mushroom into her mouth. She made a face of disgust and promptly spat it back out. "Jesus, that's gross," she gagged. "Who eats this crap?"

"Rich people who really should know better," Bella answered, handing her friend a much needed mint.

"Leah!" Lauren Mallory barked, striding forcefully towards them, cigarette tray full. "Quit stealing the food! It's for the guests!" She brushed heavily past Bella as she exited the kitchen.

Leah shot a hand out to steady Bella on her feet as she stumbled in her too-tall heels and shot a stiff middle finger up at Lauren's retreating figure.

"I saw that!" Lauren whirled around with fire in her eyes. "Next time you want to give me the finger, you might want to do it where there isn't a mirror!"

"Now why would I want to do that? What's the point of giving you the finger if you don't have the pleasure of seeing it?" Leah asked with saccharine sweetness.

Lauren's face reddened. "I'd watch your step with me, Clearwater!" she growled. "You're already on thin ice as it is with my mother. I'd hate for you and your little pet to get the axe just because you don't know the meaning of the word 'respect'!"

Leah scoffed and rolled her eyes as Lauren stomped off. "Remind me why we're here again?" she asked, as she and Bella shouldered their own trays and headed back to the party.

"Well, I know why _I'm _here – New York's expensive and my scholarship only goes so far."

Although her parents Charlie and Renee did their best, extra money was tight. There was only so much a police Lieutenant and a substitute teacher could do to help a student living in New York. So this job, offered from the least likely of sources in Lauren, was a Godsend. Though at most times unwanted, it was by no means unappreciated, at least from a dollar-and-cents point-of view. She really couldn't afford to lose it.

Leah, however, was a whole different story – she had been offered a full ride and received a stipend from her tribe, the Quileute, back West. The fact that her mother Sue was a world-renowned tribal artist did not hurt, either.

"_You_, on the other hand, are only here because it's another one of your many creative ways to piss Lauren Mallory off."

Leah gave a feral grin. "Oh, yeah, _now_, I remember!"

"You're incorrigible," Bella couldn't help her own smile.

Leah cackled as they parted ways. "What did I tell you about sticks and stones, Bella?"

X-X-X-X-X

"Bells," Leah snagged her while making the rounds, "the bar's running dry and they're slammed so Ben asked us to grab the dolly and do a booze run in the private cellar before we take our break."

"We should do it now," Bella said. "Hardly anyone's touched anything."

"They're sticking with the booze," Leah agreed. "Maybe there're some geniuses in the crowd."

The two shared a laugh as they headed back into the kitchen and set down their trays. Leah grabbed the dolly while Bella held the doors open to the service elevator.

On reaching their intended destination, Bella tried not to gawk at the opulence of the Cullen's cellar.

"Jeez, even the booze has nice digs," Leah, who had no such qualms, marvelled at the craftsmanship of the large, cool room.

"I'll say."

The two quickly gathered the items on the hastily scribbled list and stacked the dolly, eager to finish their task and take a much needed break.

On their way back to the elevator, they heard rustling from behind a closed door. As they should have been alone, they stopped in their tracks and exchanged worried glances. Or rather, Bella sent Leah a worried glance. Intrepid Leah, however, was anything but. Eyes narrowed, she reached for the knob and shoved the door open.

"Hey!" she barked, startling the two occupants.

Two men on their knees were rustling through the contents of what appeared to a pantry. They froze before the seemingly braver of the two looked back to see who had caught them. Catching sight of the two girls and a dolly, he cautiously got to his feet.

"Good evening, ladies." His voice was a Southern drawl as slow and sweet as molasses. He actually tipped his fedora at them, ice-blue eyes twinkling as he leisurely perused their figures.

"Well, be still my beating heart," Leah cooed with a shameless grin, all but batting her eyelashes. "You lost, Southern Comfort? Ballroom's that-a-way," she said, pointing in the direction of the elevator. She might have appeared relaxed and harmless, but the solid plant of her feet and watchful look in her golden eyes showed she was anything but.

"Southern Comfort?" the other man got to his feet, chuckling merrily. He was more a boy than a man really, closer to her age than his friend, Bella realised. Like the Southerner he was tall and blonde and outrageously good-looking but, unlike his friend's whipcord toughness, he looked like he ate rocks for breakfast and could bench-press a small car. There was something familiar about his eyes, but it remained frustratingly elusive in Bella's mind. "I like that – it's got a certain zing don'tcha think?" he continued with a broad grin, slapping his friend on the back.

"That I do, my friend. I just might take a shine to it. But no, we're not lost, darlin'."

_Darlin'_? Didn't he realise he was _North _of the Mason-Dixon Line?

"Then what are you two doing down here?" Bella folded her arms across her chest. "This area is off-limits to guests."

The two men exchanged amused grins at the proprietary distrust on Bella's face. It was clear that she felt they were up to no good.

"It's not what you're thinking." The Southerner stepped forward, palms out in a placatory gesture. "We're not casin' the joint. I promise – Scout's honour."

There was such a mischievous twinkle in those pretty blue eyes that Leah scoffed. She recognised his type and highly doubted that this charlatan, with his Texas twang and impeccable Southern manners notwithstanding, had _ever _been a boy-scout.

"What he said," the big one replied, renewing his search through the pantry. "We're just looking for some grub. We're starving and, no offence to you two pretty ladies, but the food at this shindig blows."

From the pungently sweet herbal aroma emanating from their costumes, it was clear as day what was at the root of their hunger.

No, they weren't casin' the joint, but they sure were smokin' it up.

"Hate to break it to you, _darlin'_, but the Cullens don't really live here fulltime," Leah replied. "You're not gonna find anything in those cupboards, Mother Hubbard. The only food in this joint is upstairs in the kitchen, and I don't think you two want to risk that."

There was such an intense look of disappointment on his face that Bella could not help but take pity on him.

"Here," she said, reaching into her pocket. She pulled out two chocolate-chip cookies wrapped in plastic. "I baked them myself. They should tide you over 'til the buffet opens in ten minutes."

"Fuck that!" Leah disagreed. "You and I both know the buffet blows even harder than the hors d'oeuvres. Trust me guys, with this crowd, no one's gonna miss you two if you book it. You're better off slipping out the back door and going for pizza or something. I know a great place a couple blocks from here – they make a killer pie!"

"Hey, I know that place!" the big one exclaimed. "She's right – the sausage and pepperoni's awesome!"

"Sounds good," his friend replied. "You should come with us," he invited.

Leah, as gung-ho as ever, flashed a brilliant smile. "Sure, why the hell –"

"I'm sorry, but we _can't_," Bella interrupted, ignoring Leah's furious glare with one of her own. Her compassion for these two nameless pot-heads only went so far. "Some of us actually have to work for a living. Besides," she continued, pointing behind him, "you should probably try to eat your cookie before your friend does."

Southern Comfort glanced back only to see that his companion-in-mischief had practically inhaled one cookie and was about to do the same thing to the other.

"Emmett," he pounced on the larger man, "you greedy bastard!"

Bella took the opportunity to drag a laughing Leah and the dolly away from the spectacle.

"Gimme a second, Sister Mary-Cock-block." Digging her heels in, Leah poked her head back into the pantry. "Hey, Southern Comfort, what's your real name?"

The man in question glanced up from where he held a struggling Emmett in a headlock. "You can call me Jasper, darlin'," he replied with his charming grin.

"Well, Jasper," she said with a wink, "I get off at three."

X-X-X-X-X

"Is it just me, or does it seem that every year the food at these things gets worse?" Esme Platt-Evenson forcibly swallowed what had been an unfortunate tasting shrimp toast. She was killer in a jersey Gres gown from 1955 the colour of fresh spilled blood, caramel blonde hair tumbling in silky waves down the smooth bare plane of her back.

Beside her Vivian Humphrey, in a smoke-grey 1940's Chanel pantsuit, smiled drolly. "It's that god-awful Stanley woman. I told Carlisle to fire her years ago. Women from the Upper East Side know nothing about food. Now, _purging _it or giving it _away_? They're great at that."

"Hey!" Esme replied in mock offense. She had known Vivian almost as long as Carlisle had and was well used to her acerbic wit. "We can _also _mix a mean cocktail!"

"Drink 'em, too." Vivian watched the other side of the crowded ballroom as Sasha McKinley and her fiancé, the Georgian prince, finished a Gin Rickey with aplomb. Only a quick-thinking waitress saved their glasses from being smashed with equal Baltic flair.

"It's the law of this particular jungle, Vivian my friend – as long as the bar doesn't run dry, nobody cares about the food. At least the music's good," she mused. "Edward really cracked the whip on that one."

As if on cue, seventeen-year-old Edward Cullen sidled up beside them. His long rangy body was clad in a superbly tailored tuxedo a la Connery's Bond, dark hair ruthlessly tamed for the moment by old-fashioned pomade, the bronze and auburn highlights gleaming dully in the low light.

"Come, Mr. Bond," Esme teased in a truly horrific Russian accent. She commandeered his arm and pushed him out onto the dance-floor. "Let's dance."

Edward, admirably not missing a step, swung her into an energetic foxtrot. "There are worse places to be tonight than holding a beautiful woman in my arms." He flashed a crooked grin, green eyes sparkling and, as usual, Esme found herself struck by the perfection Carlisle, Elizabeth and God had created.

"Sweet boy," she chuckled and gave her godson a peck on the cheek. "Have you been practicing?"

"Indeed," he replied, giving her an expert twirl. "I have it on good authority that the brooding musician persona only goes so far. Even we trust-fund brats are expected to talk every now and then. Dance, too. Can you believe that?"

A playful and open Edward was so rare these days that Esme decided to revel in the moment. "Alice sure does know what she's talking about," she mused, referring to his twin sister.

"Who says I was talking about that walking clothes-horse? _Playboy_ really does have interesting articles, you know," he replied with admirable seriousness. "You can learn a lot from the Hef."

"I suspect that little titbit was learned at the feet of Emmett Cullen, no doubt."

"More like the feet of Emmett Cullen's _bed_," he quipped. The dance ended and with a final whirl he escorted her back to Vivian, who was waiting with a finally resurfaced Emmett and Jasper.

"Where have you two been?" Edward asked almost accusingly. "You ditched me. It took me twenty minutes to get away from Tanya McKinley."

"I was looking for you," Emmett lied. "Besides, don't act like those twenty minutes with MTA-1 were such a hardship – it's a rite of passage," he added with his customary grin.

Edward's eyes narrowed in displeasure. "That's the problem."

"I certainly hope you don't call that poor girl 'MTA-1' to her face, Emmett Cullen," Esme frowned in disapproval.

"Of course not, Aunt Mae," he lied – he was good at it, in case you couldn't tell.

MTA was an abbreviation for the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, the public corporation that governed most of the city's transport network. Given that this was also the less than stellar nickname of the girl in question, one could infer why.

Vivian snorted. "That girl switches partners more than a square dancer."

The McKinley girls – Tanya (MTA-1), Irina (MTA-2) and Kate (MTA-3) – like their mother, Sasha, were infamous in New York circles. And unfortunately – in Edward's head – or fortunately – in _Emmett's_, since hey, his baby brother had to lose his V-card _sometime_ and it might as well be to someone who really (really, _really_) knew what she was doing – the twenty-two-year-old socialite had cast her roving eye on him.

Emmett rolled his eyes, knowing his brother was a lost cause. An old soul, Edward was probably waiting for his 'other half' or some rot like that before he ever got down to the dirty-dirty. "Where're Alice and her friend?" he asked, changing the subject. "We're getting ready to blow this Popsicle stand. I'm thinking pizza – the food here blows."

"Goody, the gang's all here!" Alice Cullen made her own magical appearance like the pixie she was constantly likened too. Dressed as Shirley Temple, she looked shockingly young compared to her friend Rosalie Hale, dressed as Veronica Lake, blow-hard boyfriend blessedly absent and looking ridiculously hot for jailbait. "Can we get out of here? The food sucks and I'm hungry. I thought dangerous substances were supposed to come with a warning label?"

"That seems to be the general consensus," Vivian mused. "Where _is _Muffin-Girl when we need her?"

X-X-X-X-X

Muffin-Girl was in a predicament.

There was a reason why the divorce-rate in Manhattan's Upper East Side was so low. Given the narcissistic and misogynistic sense of entitlement that characterised most men of power, the idea that these same men would not or did not cheat was laughable. The real reason behind these lasting marriages was the simple unwritten rule of the jungle: infidelity was meant to be ruthlessly, pathologically ignored – unless a wronged spouse could make a killing in the divorce settlement, of course. These simple rules in mind, the bored rich were constantly on the look-out for ways to thoroughly entertain themselves before making their way back to the staid propriety of their Park Avenue addresses.

Bella had quickly learned this on the job and yet the weeks of dodged pats on the ass and suggestive comments had not prepared her for a conveniently empty room and the fear that rose in her throat and threatened to choke her.

When Anne Mallory sent her out to inform the party guests in the side rooms around the ballroom that the buffet was open, nowhere in that scenario had she envisioned this. Being truly caught in this position by the type of man who didn't take no for an answer – especially from the Help – had been an abstract notion. But the harsh grip that manacled the delicate bones of her wrist was all too real. Whoever he was, he meant business.

In a testament to her upbringing, she could hear Charlie's voice in her head. His calm clear instructions on how to defend herself should she ever be caught in this situation helped to ease back some of the tide. But, just as she was debating the odds of succeeding at the tried and true method of a swift kick to the balls followed by an all-out sprint in three-inch heels, the voice of an angel intervened.

Carlisle Cullen stood in the shadows by the door. On his way back to the party from his private office, he had paused when he recognised a voice. Curious to know what Esme's husband was doing in what should have been a locked room, he pushed the door open fully only to come face-to-face with an all too familiar picture. His eyes had swiftly assessed the situation and hardened like the emeralds they so resembled when he realised that Charles's partner was no willing participant.

"_Charles_."

Bella's assailant froze and then, blessedly, stepped away.

"I'm sure you're wanted in the ballroom. Didn't you promise your _wife_ a dance?"

Charles Evenson cleared his throat nervously and smoothed his thinning hair with shaking hands even as his eyes narrowed on hers in warning. There was a measure of menace buried in Carlisle's unfailingly polite, almost bored tone. And there was no mistaking the fury in those eyes as Charles brushed past him to beat a hasty exit.

Charles was not unique. Carlisle had known men like him his entire life, child-like bullies in men's bodies. Power was a dangerous thing – it could go straight to one's head. Years of controlling the Platt fortune had allowed him to buy into the notion that he was a God among men; that he could do whatever he pleased, wherever he pleased and to whomever he pleased without any consequences. It was this same delusion that made him dangerous when his ego was bruised. He would have to keep a closer eye on Esme's husband in the future.

As the door closed behind him Bella, who had been practically holding her breath up until that point, sagged against the desk, unwanted tears of relief welling in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Carlisle apologised, stepping fully into the room.

Her breath caught in surprise. "It's you," Bella whispered. Her cheeks burned in mortification as she stared at him, eyes wide and dark and wet. "_Fudge_," she cursed quietly as she tried to wipe her tears away in vain. What were the odds of her seeing him again? And why here and _now_ of all times?

Carlisle's jaw clenched. It was _her_, the virginal temptress from Washington Square Park. "It's me," he confirmed in reply. He forced himself to rein in his temper. He would indeed deal with Charles later, he promised.

"I owe you thirty-two dollars in change," she blurted, grasping at straws to take control and steer the conversation away from the giant pink elephant in the room.

Carlisle smiled softly at this awkwardness, anger down to a slow simmer as he tried to give her what she needed. "Keep it," he said, engaging her. "Think of it as my contribution to the betterment of society." Reaching into his tuxedo pocket, he crossed the room and handed her a pristine white handkerchief.

As she unsuccessfully tried to repair the damage her tears had done to her makeup he consoled himself with thoughts of all the ways he would make Charles Evenson pay. She looked so young, he mused, young and scared.

Bella frowned at the mess she had made of the pristine cotton. "I'm sorry," she apologised, holding it out for him to take back. "I think it's ruined."

"That's okay – keep it. I have others."

"Thank you," she whispered.

Carlisle nodded, understanding that she was grateful for more than just the use of his handkerchief.

Then she nibbled on the lush pillow of her bottom lip and any anger or concern that he felt for her was instantly tempered by a sharp lance of lust. As it flared to life at that simple, guileless action, he knew that he was going straight to hell.

He wanted to take that rich, ripe, red mouth with his and make her _yield_.

More than that, he wanted _inside_ her.

It would be so easy, he thought, to step into her space, to bend her over the desk and ease that little flounced skirt up over her ass, to sink himself into the tight, wet fist of her and _make_ her like it.

_Christ_!

"Fancy meeting _you_ here." Bella cringed. He seemed to have withdrawn within himself, but there was a raw tension vibrating on the air between them. She erroneously attributed it to what he had walked in on and so had said the first thing that came to mind in an effort to break the mounting tension.

Carlisle blinked. He drew the unravelling tatters of his control close and forced himself to play along. "Yes, how about that? Any words of wisdom about tonight's repast?"

"Well," Bella smiled tentatively, "if you ask me, whoever this Carlisle Cullen is, he could've saved himself and his company a lot of trouble and money and just ordered take-out."

In his near forty-three years on Earth, Carlisle Cullen could count on one hand the number of times he had been rendered truly speechless.

This was one of them.

It hit him, then. They had never taken the time to exchange names and this sweet, charming girl clearly had no clue who she was talking to. Not that she was saying anything he necessarily disagreed with – there _was_ some merit in Vivian's argument to fire the woman who had hired tonight's caterer. But he wondered if she would have been as candid if she did know.

It hadn't taken long during his formative years for Carlisle to realise that, as a Cullen, regardless of his age, people craved not only his attention, but his approval. He was intelligent and athletic but it was his somewhat aloof, withdrawn manner that seemed most to fuel their desires. He guarded his words closely, choosing not to speak when it was unnecessary, and when he did choose to share he possessed a quick, often sharp wit, the sort that often guaranteed people of all shapes and sizes, from all walks of life all but hung on his every word... and told him whatever they _thought _he wanted to hear.

He couldn't help but laugh in disbelief. "Oh really?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

"Well, I guess even take-out would have been a waste. With this crowd he should've just spent every penny on the booze."

"You're probably right," he chuckled again.

"It was an educated guess," she admitted sheepishly. "I'm good at guessing."

"Trust me," Carlisle said, "you're right on the money."

There was that smile again – the one that if forced to he would admit had shimmered in his memory like a distant beckoning star since that October morning. She touched something in him way beyond the physical and perhaps that dangerous tenderness was the most worrying thing of all.

"Um... I should get back to the kitchen," Bella said quietly.

Where his eyes had been twinkling pools of emerald and jade, they were now suddenly dark and shuttered as they had been when he first helped her. A part of her somehow recognised an air of darkness within him, even if she did not fully understand it. She certainly recognised power and yet another part of her was utterly fascinated. But, thankfully, she was still governed by a sense of self-preservation – even if it was just a sliver.

"I've been gone awhile. They're probably looking for me."

Carlisle was wise to the ways of the world and Bella was an open book. A sly dark voice whispered in his thoughts… it _would _be so easy to take what he wanted. But to surrender control would be dangerous. To surrender control would make him a worse barbarian than Charles Evenson could ever be.

He cleared his throat. "Right, of course." He stepped back and allowed her to pass.

"Thanks again," she said, hand on the doorknob.

"You're welcome."

The door closed quietly behind her and Carlisle took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut.

Her scent, the sweetness of strawberries and cream, lingered in the air. It was like her: so innocent, so tempting...

He wanted her. Wanted her scent; wanted her taste; wanted her _cries_...

Wanted to _own_ her as no other man had owned her, as no other man in the world she belonged to _ever_ could...

Carlisle took one more moment to revel in the fantasy of his baser instincts, before taking a deep cleansing breath and locking his craving away.

Bella, meanwhile, was making her way back to the kitchen trying to think up a plausible excuse to explain her absence, hoping all the while that in the madness behind the scenes she would not be missed. After all, she was a terrible liar and it would be in her best interests if she was not called on to explain herself.

But, she could not have known that she had indeed been missed and that Anne had sent her daughter out to look for her. Just as she could not have known that Lauren had indeed found her just as she had made her feelings known to the very last person she should have.

Instead, poor Bella stepped back into the kitchen and right into the wrathful grasp of her boss.

"Miss Swan."

Bella and the whole kitchen froze. They all recognised that glacial tone. It was the infamous opening salvo to Anne's "You're _fucked_!" offence and they _all _knew that things wouldn't end well for her.

Lauren's mother was a window into her daughter's future. A rail-thin blonde, Anne's already hard, narrow face was further pinched with fury. "I'd like a word with you."

_Well, fudge!_


	3. Opportunity Knocks

**Disclaimer: _The Twilight Saga _and all associated characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer and Little, Brown & Company. Any and all original characters are the property of the author. No profit is being made from this story.**

**X-X-X-X-X**

******"Master, is it strange that the only time I feel truly alive is when I wear your collar?"**

******X-X-X-X-X**

**III: OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS**

**January 2004**

It was two weeks later and things had gone much as expected.

After her close-call, Bella had walked from one bad situation into an even worse one. She barely had enough time to process thoughts of a financially rocky future before Anne proceeded to rip her a new one in full view of everyone.

In the end she was fired and Leah had quit.

Of course, Leah loved to remind her of the fact that Bella had_ indeed _been fired and yet it had had _nothing_ to do with _her_.

Bella could appreciate the irony.

After spending Christmas back in Seattle, the extra funds she had managed to pocket during her short stint in the catering business were rapidly drying up and it seemed unlikely she would find another similar job any time soon since Anne Mallory had taken it upon herself to spread the word of her behaviour to the tight-knit food community.

She was currently perusing fresh produce at a fruit stall musing about her limited financial options. Her stepfather Phil's prospects for the Majors were looking up, with the Marlins extending an invitation to their Spring Training. She was debating swallowing her pride and taking him up on his offer to supplement her allowance when fate stepped up in the form of a loud voice that broke her from her morose thoughts.

"Hey! _Cookie girl_! I thought that was you!"

Bella glanced up to see Emmett from the party bearing down on her, his blonde hair gleaming in the weak January sunlight.

He was as tall as she remembered, although he looked a lot different than he had in his gangster get-up dressed as he was now in jeans and a dark grey overcoat, a Dartmouth-green scarf flapping in the winter wind. As his green eyes twinkled merrily at her, that feeling of familiarity again slipped frustratingly through her mind.

"Emmett, right?" she answered with a hesitant yet friendly smile.

"Yup," he confirmed, popping the 'p'. "Damn, Cookie girl, you're a tough broad to find!" he announced.

Her brow wrinkled in confusion. "My name is _Bella_. And why were you trying to find me?"

"Well, _Bella_," he conceded. "What was with the disappearing act? Jasper and I waited around for you and your friend after the party. Jasper doesn't give his heart lightly, you know. Your friend's scarred him for life."

Bella started at the almost accusatory tone of his voice, until she caught hold of his twinkling eyes. She rolled her eyes. "I doubt that very much. Besides, there was no 'disappearing', and there wouldn't have been any waiting around anyway since I was escorted off the premises. I was _fired_."

"Jeez, tough break. What happened?" he asked curiously.

"I don't want to talk about it," Bella replied darkly. "Suffice to say I said something I shouldn't have to someone that I definitely shouldn't have said it to."

"I see you've decided to keep spreading your holiday cheer," quipped Emmett. "As if you hadn't managed to ruin my Christmas already."

"How did _I_ manage to ruin _your_ Christmas?" she asked sarcastically.

"Doesn't matter, Cookie Girl," he replied with a hand to his forehead and a heavy sigh, "the damage has already been done."

"It's _Bella_. And, are you always this melodramatic?" Bella huffed. She had a sneaky suspicion that 'Cookie Girl' was going to stick.

Emmett grinned, and it was like a sock to the stomach in its brilliance. "It's a gift. Just like you would've been," he continued.

Bella's eyes widened. "_Excuse me_?" she growled indignantly.

"_Whoa_, _whoa_, _whoa_!" Emmett hastily placated. "I meant your _baking skills_, of course! Jeez, Cookie Girl, get your head out of the gutter!" he said with a playful nudge. "I mean, no offense, your mad skills rock my socks an' all," he continued, wriggling his eyebrows with a flash of that wicked grin, "but I've got a thing for _blondes_, even if they can't bake."

An embarrassed flush flooded Bella's cheeks as she worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Now, _that's_ cute," Emmett commented suddenly. He reached out with a blunt-tipped finger and stroked the lush pillow of her mouth with a bold sensuality that belied his preference for tow-headed females.

Of course her blush deepened. "Do you have _any_ concept of boundaries?" she asked, slapping his hand away and stepping back with a frown.

"I'm sorry," he said with a wholly unapologetic grin. "I'm an impulse kinda guy."

Her eyes remained narrowed on his face.

His expression turned uneasy. "You know, you look like you're not-so-impulsively contemplating kicking me in the nuts. Or maybe I shouldn't plant any ideas in that head of yours," he continued hastily. "Aren't you at least curious about why I've been _platonically_," he clarified, "trying to find you even after you ruined my Christmas?"

_Could this conversation get any stranger?_ Bella wondered.

"Okay, Emmett, _why _have you been _platonically _trying to find me even after I _supposedly _ruined your Christmas?" Bella asked exasperatedly.

"No _supposed _ruination there, Cookie Girl. Okay, _okay_," he apologised, yet again, at her baleful glare. "My Dad instituted a price-ban on presents a few Christmases ago. It was after we – my younger sister, brother and I – dropped a half- mill for a car."

Bella's jaw dropped.

"It was a _McLaren_!"

"It was a _car_," Bella shot back weakly, still trying to wrap her head around the concept of _having _half-a-million dollars, much less half-a-million to spend on an _automobile_. "Holy crow!" her knees actually felt like jelly.

"It wasn't just _any _car. It was a Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren!" he disputed, sure that explained everything. "They weren't even public yet! It was a big deal to get our hands on one of those babies!"

"Half-a-million for four wheels and an engine," Bella shook her head in disbelief. "And any bet, not a cup-holder in sight."

"You sound remarkably like my father, right now."

Bella huffed.

"Anyway, like I was saying, you _Philistine_," he continued, trying to curb the desire to touch her rose-tinted cheek, "he instituted a price-ban on all presents to him after that – a hundred bucks or less. Do you know how hard it is to find a decent gift for a _hundred _bucks?"

"Not that hard. We _Philistines_ without half-a-million in our bank accounts to spend on a _car_ do it all the time."

Emmett grinned. "Now you're starting to sound like my dad's assistant Vivian."

"Smart woman," Bella replied dryly.

"It's uncanny," Emmett chuckled. "You sure you weren't a hot redhead in a past life?"

"Do you intend to finish this story any time soon?" Bella huffed yet again. She was quickly coming to the realisation that exasperation was a common emotional response for her when in extended contact with Emmett.

"Right, so a hundred bucks. Needless to say, we were at a loss."

"Imagine that."

"Hey, will you quit with the sarcasm? I'm trying to explain how you ruined Christmas, Madame Grinch!"

"Is _that _what you were trying to do?"

"Is this what payback feels like?" he asked curiously.

Bella gave him an enigmatic smile.

"It is, isn't it? Okay, alright, even _I _get it. So, like I was saying, we had no idea what to get him. Vivian was supposed to help us and she was talking about these muffins that he brought into the office one day and how much he liked them and how it would be a nice gift if we could get some more, only she had no idea where he'd gotten them from. And it clicked, I knew somebody like that, but before I could get your number and ask you to make one of those gift basket thingies, you disappeared."

"I didn't disappear. I told you, I got _fired_."

"_Semantics_," Emmett replied with a careless shrug. "Point is, I couldn't ask you to bake for us and had to end up getting something else, which ruined my Christmas, since chowing down on those cookies would've been so much more awesome than a boring old _Ferrari da Varese_," he finished with a grumble.

Bella chose to ignore the fact that she had no idea what a _Ferrari da Varese_ was, but that she was pretty sure that anything with the word 'Ferrari' in its name could not possibly have cost less than a hundred dollars.

"Well, technically, _Anne_ is the one who ruined your Christmas, since she's the one who fired me," she said instead.

"Well, since we're getting technical, you kinda _did _ruin my Christmas, Cookie-Girl, since you said yourself that your big mouth is what got you fired in the first place," Emmett pointed out.

There was a pause. He had her there. She knew it, he knew it and the fruit vendor who had been listening in on their conversation with a sense of morbid fascination knew it, too.

"What, no pithy comeback?" he asked with his easy grin. "Does this mean we actually agree?"

"I admit to nothing," she replied, folding her arms across her chest.

"Don't worry – your silence shows you concur," he continued playfully.

"Still doesn't explain why you were still trying to find me after I, apparently, pulled a Grinch on you."

"Well, my Dad's birthday is coming up and this price-ban extends to them, too. That one's entirely my fault. One year, I got him a _Vacheron Constantin_. It's got invisible ink and four-hundred-plus custom combinations! I mean, it's straight out of a Bond movie! How could I resist?" he asked with childlike wonder.

"Do I even want to know how much, whatever a _Vacheron Constantin_ is, retails for?"

"It's a _watch_, Cookie Girl. Jeez, you really _are _a Philistine! And it was better than the island in Brazil I had my eye on before I stumbled onto that little bad boy. Have you forgotten about the car? Trust me sixty-grand was a _bargain_!"

"_I_ bought my father a _tackle-box_ for his last birthday. _You_ bought yours a _watch_ that costs as much as a state college education!" Her knees started feeling weak again.

"Well, to be honest, I think your father probably enjoyed his tackle-box more. My dad's worn the same Rolex for as long as I can remember," he admitted sheepishly.

"Did you guys ever stop to think that _maybe _your father's trying to tell you something?" Bella asked. "_Maybe_ something along the lines of spending a lot of money on expensive gifts isn't really important to him? A hundred dollars forces you to be selective. And maybe if you weren't so caught up on all things shiny like an overgrown magpie, you'd realise that finding a thoughtful gift your father would enjoy isn't really as difficult as you seem to think."

"Now, you really _do _sound like Vivian," Emmett replied, chagrined. "She said the same thing. But that was where _you _were supposed to come in. But we couldn't find you and that bitchy caterer wasn't exactly forthcoming with your contact details. But then, bam! Just when I think we're gonna have to break the rules again I bump into you! It was like fate or something."

"Or something," Bella muttered.

"See where I'm going with this?"

"Emmett," she protested, "you've had like _one _cookie from me –"

"Well, it was more like one and a half," he corrected with a shameless grin. "Jasper couldn't get to me in time. Like I said – rocked my socks!"

"Really?" a pleased smile spread across her face before Bella remembered that she was supposed to be discouraging him.

Emmett cut her off again. "It's just a few baked goods! You can even name your price – even if it's over a hundred bucks. I mean, what he doesn't know won't hurt him, right?" he bargained cheekily.

He reached into his coat pocket. "Listen, before you completely shoot me down, at least think about it, would'ya? Do you have a cellphone?" Emmett asked, holding up a slim mobile phone.

Bella shook her head no.

He pursed his lips and went searching again, this time in his jeans pockets, pulling out a ragged piece of paper. "You got a pen?"

Bella sighed heavily, but reached into the bottomless pit that was her handbag and eventually fished one out.

"This is my number at the top," he explained. "The bottom is my father's assistant's direct line. Vivian practically runs my Dad's life, so you should probably go through her for the logistics and everything."

Bella reached out and hesitantly took the proffered piece of paper from him.

"I don't suppose you'd want to return the favour?" he asked hopefully.

"I don't have a phone," she reminded him.

"But, you've got email, right?" he asked. "C'mon, Cookie girl," he pressed at her reluctance. "You don't wanna start ruining _birthdays_ now, too, do you?"

There was a honk, and the two looked over to see a sleek town-car pull up to the curb.

"That's my ride," Emmett announced, holding up a finger to signal the emerging driver to wait. "I'm on my way back to school, but, I'll be in the city for his birthday at the end of the month. Put me out of my misery, please? My fingers are just itching to write out a cheque for that island, you know. You wouldn't want that to happen, would'ya?"

Bella couldn't help but smile at his boyish plea.

"Think about it, Cookie Girl," he said, striding away. "Call me!"

She heaved a sigh and looked down at the piece of paper. In surprisingly neat print, he had written his name and number. His _full_ name.

Emmett _Cullen_.

Suddenly it clicked.

"_… what are you two doing down here?" Bella folded her arms across her chest. "This area is off-limits to guests."_

_The two men exchanged amused grins at the proprietary distrust on Bella's face. It was clear that she felt they were up to no good._

Yes, they had been up to no good, but Emmett and Jasper had had more right to be there than almost anyone else.

"_...she was talking about these muffins that he brought into the office one day and how much he liked them and how it would be a nice gift if we could get some more, only she had no idea where he'd gotten them from._

Images of broad shoulders and blonde hair, that killer smile and those pretty, _pretty _green eyes flashed through her mind.

Now that she knew what to look for, there was no mistaking the awful truth.

Goofy, exasperating Emmett Cullen was the dangerously sexy Carlisle's _son_.

X-X-X-X-X

"You're an idiot," Leah growled, rolling her eyes and flopping back onto Bella's bed.

It was a few hours later and the two were lounging in Bella's dorm-room, relaxing in the Lauren-free zone before heading down to the dining-hall for dinner. Bella had just finished telling her of that afternoon's run-in with Emmett and Leah, of course, had to weigh in with her opinion.

"I _Googled_ him, you know," she admitted, cutting off Bella's imminent protest. "Your DILF," Leah clarified, sitting back up.

Bella's eyebrows shot up. "Really? What did you find?"

"He's Carlisle Cullen," Leah answered simply.

"I thought we'd already established that fact, me having gotten _fired _because of it," Bella replied almost accusingly.

"Just as we've already established that that was totally _your _fault, not mine," Leah shot back with a grin. "As I was saying before you got your knickers in a knot, he's _Carlisle_ _Cullen_."

She rolled her eyes in exasperation at Bella's continual ignorance. "What kind of wannabe journalist _are_ you? Carlisle Cullen is the Chairman and CEO of Cullen Enterprise. He's one of the richest, most powerful men on the planet!"

"You're not helping right now, Leah! In case you've forgotten, let me refresh your memory: I insulted his intelligence and made a complete fool of myself!" Her cheeks burned in mortification at her clueless behaviour.

"_Well," Bella smiled tentatively, "if you ask me, whoever this Carlisle Cullen is, he could've saved himself and his company a lot of trouble and money and just ordered take-out... Well, I guess even take-out would have been a waste. With this crowd he should've just spent every penny on the booze."_

_Had there been any real clues_, she wondered. How could she have been so utterly clueless?

"_Oh really?" he asked, eyes twinkling._

"Look, didn't you say that when you put your foot in your mouth, all he did was laugh?"

"_You're probably right," he chuckled again._

"_It was an educated guess," she admitted sheepishly. "I'm good at guessing."_

"_Trust me you're right on the money."_

"That's not the point. I still got fired!"

"He didn't have anything to do with that, not directly anyway. And, hey, weren't you the one bitching and moaning for the last month about not being able to find a decent job ever since Anne fired your ass and practically blacklisted you? And now, someone is willing to overlook all that and offer you gainful employment and you're not chomping at the bit to get started?" Leah continued incredulously. "Like I said – you're an _idiot_."

"But, it's _not_ a steady gig," Bella argued again. "It's just a one-time thing – for a birthday."

"Who says it has to be only a one-time thing? Emmett Cullen had _one _of your cookies and practically hunted you down for the last month. And, we already know you impressed Big Daddy with your muffins," she continued with a wicked grin. "You bake your ass off on this one order, Bella, and I bet you it won't be the last."

Bella frowned thoughtfully. "You seriously think I could make a go of it? What if I screw up... _again_?"

"Do you _have _to see doom and gloom in _everything_? It's not like you haven't done it before. You won't screw up," her friend growled. Leah surged to her feet and, crossing to Bella's desk, dug into her bag for the ragged piece of paper that Emmett had scribbled his and Vivian's contact information on.

"_Call_ her."

X-X-X-X-X

Demetri Carinik had built a well deserved reputation as one of the best private investigators in New York City. Young and unassuming with his spiky brown hair and baby face, he could _blend_ into situations that others could not. If something or someone was lost, he could _find_ it where others could not. Best of all, he was the very definition of discretion and worth every penny of his exorbitant fees.

He sat waiting at a table in a private room at Carlisle's city club. The attendant had brought him a decanter of finest Scotch and a selection of cigars and he was savouring the smoky bite of the whisky and counting the pennies for this particular job when Carlisle arrived.

"Mr. Cullen." He stood with a polite smile, holding out his hand. "It's a pleasure as always."

Carlisle's grip was firm and he nodded in acknowledgment as he took a seat. "Did you do as I asked?" he began, dispensing with the other niceties.

Demetri's brows lifted at the uncharacteristic impatience in Carlisle's tone.

"Yes, I did." He reached into the bag he carried and took out a file. "Here it is, as promised." He passed it to Carlisle. "Everything there is to know about Isabella Swan."


	4. The Potter's Wheel

**Disclaimer: _The Twilight Saga _and all associated characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer and Little, Brown & Company. Any and all original characters are the property of the author. No profit is being made from this story.**

**X-X-X-X-X**

******"Master, is it strange that the only time I feel truly alive is when I wear your collar?"**

******X-X-X-X-X**

**IV: THE POTTER'S WHEEL**

**January 2004**

For weeks he barely slept. Truth is for the past nine years, he had seldom slept seamlessly throughout the night, tossing and turning; rising long before dawn shed its light over his city but now his nights were filled with a cloying, saturating heat; a dangerous fever in his blood threatening to consume him.

He had requested her file in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness. So far, he had stood steadfast against the temptation to read it. This strength would have been commendable had it not been overshadowed by an ever present, nigh debilitating desire to learn on his own the nuances of Isabella Swan.

His was a strange fascination; a compulsion that urged him to drown himself in her. Like a Siren she called to him, and like doomed sailors of yore – to yield would spell disaster.

He was aware enough to recognize that on some painlessly reached level he was not alone in this affliction. His mind saw fit to constantly remind him it could be so easy. He could take her, but that would not even be necessary; with just a little time and careful effort, she would give herself to him. But to do so, to even contemplate setting such a scenario in motion, would go against everything that made him the man he was.

And yet, this civilized understanding could not dispel this constant yearning down, as it was now to a simmering ache.

He saw her in everything and in everyplace. Most recently today at a SoHo gallery in a ceramic pot, of all things – slender yet subtly curving, burnished terracotta that shone as if wet.

More so than diamonds, clay was the Earth's most precious gift to men. From hence we came, fashioned with loving care in a higher power's image. And, like a human being, the spirit in clay was very much alive.

What could _be_ was defined by what _was_. He could not bring into being something that was not there, only what was dormant; waiting.

How like clay she was and he was the able potter; discovering the mysterious form that lay within its depths. She was a vessel to sculpt and to form. She would undulate; damp and silky under his hand, alive and sensual with newly discovered vitality.

His was a dark power that he wielded. The temptation was there to press into her malleable softness and see if _it _was there. Only by the force of this will did he hold onto his sanity; to a sliver of civility, of humanity.

But only just barely... and now not at all.

She had been _here_.

_Here _in the sterile sanctuary to which he had retreated to suffer quietly when Elizabeth had left this Earth and taken everything that had made him _complete_ with her.

He had stepped out of the penthouse's private elevator to find the aroma of apples and spice permeated the air. Inhaling a deeper breath, he noted that it was laced with strawberries and cream, the same scent that had clung to her skin _and_ to his memory.

_How_?

_Why_?

In the end, the 'how' and 'why' were simple – traces of Esme's signature Chanel No. 22, the basket, simple meal for five and birthday card were explanation enough.

He barely held it together through the subsequent dinner and presentation of gifts; drowning in fantasies of nude Bella displayed across his granite counter, the taste of sugar-coated sex on his tongue and pleasure-filled cries in his ears.

And in the end he realized that in the grand scheme of things, his power was perhaps nothing more than an illusion; that, even as his will contrived to keep them apart, fate conspired to bring them together...

X-X-X-X-X

"My, my, but you've gorged yourself... And yet, your mind is strangely anywhere _but_ here, my friend." The voice was cultured like the Queen's English, tempered by an accent that hinted at a palatial upbringing in the Mediterranean.

If Esme was the angel perched on his shoulder, then Dungeon Master Aro Volturi was surely the horned and cloven demon on the other; perfectly content to allow Carlisle to revel in hedonistic debauchery. The son of exiled royalty, he had met Carlisle the summer after the American graduated from high school when the two were on a Grand Tour of the Continent and recognized the kindred spirit, brimming with untapped potential.

He had affectionately christened his new friend 'The Late Bloomer'; playfully lamenting all the time lost and opportunities missed. It was in a brothel in the stews of a Paris _arrondissement_ nearly twenty-five years ago that Carlisle was introduced to The Dark, that he had bloomed; looked inside himself and saw what he was, what he was meant for.

Now Aro lounged on mounds of jewel-toned pillows at total ease with his nakedness; his slender body against rich crimson satin on a bed the size of a small lake; long dark hair tousled over his pale shoulders.

"If our dear Renata could speak, she would turn the very air blue with her ire... not that her very beautiful eyes do not say the same."

Hands bound above her head, so high that she perched on the tips of her toes so that her beautifully voluptuous body was a taut line of caramel skin; Aro's mate could not speak due to the ball gag placed in her mouth. But agreement with her Master's observation was clear in her curious dark eyes.

"You're abusing your privilege."

Aro cast a jaundiced eye over the scene. The slick gloss of his wife's pleasure coated her thighs; the marks from Carlisle's crop were stark red strips crisscrossing her flesh. Their skin was slicked with sweat, the scent of their mutual completion filled the air, and yet that sense of joy that typically characterised their joining was curiously absent. For a man whose body had been immersed in dark sensuality for _hours_ as if _compelled_, his mind still remained removed. He was still tightly, dangerously wound.

"Aren't we all?" Aro muttered quietly. Like her, his pride sharpened even as he acknowledged that there was a deeper issue taking place.

He watched thoughtfully as Carlisle removed the gag and unhooked the gauntlets that kept her bound. He brought her hands to his lips, pressing an apologetic kiss to her knuckles and lips. Renata laid a soft hand against his cheek, but Carlisle shook his head in reply to her unasked question.

"You may go," he said gruffly.

As Renata took her leave, a memory stirred.

Time and patience, concentration and experimentation, variety, thoroughness and remarkable restraint had honed and expanded skills to legendary proportion. But that restraint seemed to be holding on by tenterhooks; by sheer will.

"It has been a while since I've seen you so haunted; such a slave to your passion," Aro began conversationally.

Carlisle stilled at this tone. Aro was beyond perceptive. He knew his friend well enough to know the look on his face would be anything but placid. When he gave that earnest dark stare it was as though he could see every private thought you ever had in your life. It served him well in his profession but was a real hindrance to someone with a secret to guard.

He turned and all but skewered his friend with a threatening glare. "This is not your office, Aro – don't psychoanalyze me," he warned witheringly.

Aro tsked and barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "You forget who you're talking to, my friend. That Lord of The Universe tone doesn't work on me."

Carlisle's jaw clenched.

Sliding from the bed, Aro wrapped a black silk robe around his body and fixed that frustratingly aware stare on his friend all the while searching for the memory. The mists that surrounded it dissipated and it was suddenly clear.

"You're trying to fuck someone out of your head," he marvelled.

Carlisle stilled, but there was no joy for Aro in this small victory.

"How _is_ that working for you?" It was clear as day that it was not working well and, given the predilections of their past-time, a lack of control was dangerous. And yet, Aro could not help but be fascinated.

The muscles in Carlisle's broad back tightened under the expanse of golden skin and his fists curled in frustration. "Tell Gianna to send Heidi to me," he bit out.

Aro's lips pursed. "That well, eh?"

"Aro," Carlisle growled, "_stop_!"

But he had no intention of stopping. "I would be so inclined to meet this woman," he mused. "To whom does she belong?"

Carlisle sighed heavily, debated answering. "She's not a woman, she's a _girl_... and she doesn't belong to anyone but herself. I'll be damned before I ever subject her to the likes of you... the likes of _me_. I'd rather I destroy myself than to ever hurt someone like Isabella Swan," he said quietly.

_Isabella Swan – _the girl with the heart-shaped face, smooth porcelain skin and innocent doe-eyes... and a lush mouth made for sex.

Images of her flashed through his mind – that thoughtful frown as she seriously contemplated what muffin he should try, the punch of power of that bashful smile of pleasure at his enjoyment of her wares, the raring of a dangerous animal at her fear when trapped by that snake Charles, that urge to rip and destroy because how _dare _he seek to take that which was not his; that which was _Carlisle's_?

"She belongs to no one?" Aro asked incredulously. "And what do you mean by 'destroy'?" At _that_ it was difficult for him not to be insulted.

Carlisle sealed his eyes shut. Here she was, at only the sound of her name; calling out to him. "She is unmarked. And, Iam a civilised man, no matter what my actions today might show! _She_...is just a _girl_. What I feel for her...it's not _right_."

"What is right or wrong? Is it not more dangerous to repress your instincts?" Aro asked, even as he acknowledged that to try to persuade his friend of such was in vain. He treaded lightly. "Why are you denying yourself?"

"I haven't stopped all night! How can I be 'denying' myself! Besides, just because I want her doesn't mean that I should have her!" Carlisle snapped. "I'm not that much of an animal!" He was breathing heavily now, drowning in the maelstrom of his emotions, spinning further out of control.

"Have you forgotten the rules that govern our world, Carlisle? Our relationships are based on mutual trust between two consenting adults. We walk in the dark, but we are not dark. You have walked alone for so long, my friend."

"She's not Elizabeth, Aro... you can't change what is."

_Ah, there we are._

"From the look of things, you don't even know what is. You do yourself, this girl and her memory an insult with that belief. Elizabeth is _gone_."

In those sleepless nights since the party he had had plenty of time to think. And his mind had taken him to places he had not wanted to go.

For nine short years he had shared his life with the woman of his dreams. Two parts of a whole, they had held nothing back from each other and then, it seemed as quickly as a wisp of smoke, she was gone. And then he was alone; alone and for all intents and purposes _lonely_.

Unless you lived through it yourself, you simply could not understand what it was like to love and lose. To love someone so much that death meant the death of one's own heart.

There was only one, and there could be no other.

You could not understand what it was like to all but drift through life for the next twelve years believing in something so strongly, only for one day to have life and circumstance show you that everything you thought you knew as fact was an illusion.

To one day go from seeing the woman he had spent half his life loving – with her gorgeous red hair, dark like the sweetest wine, eyes like honeycombs and cinnamon freckles sprinkled across her nose – in every woman he fucked... only to now see Isabella Swan.

With Elizabeth gone, he could not find it in himself to care about much. Pain at her loss had all but turn his heart to stone. But now, with that smile, those eyes his heart was beating, thundering wildly again in the once empty cavity of his chest.

How could this _be_?

He wanted to cry.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to fuck her out of his head, out of his system.

Most of all he just wanted to fuck _her_.

But lust was simple. It was the fact that he wanted more that chafed; that made him want to crawl out of his skin.

"You want her…there is nothing wrong with that. You are only human. Perhaps we could –"

Carlisle all but growled, bringing a small smile to Aro's face. "How can you mark territory on one you don't even wish to claim?"

"I never said that I didn't want to, just that I wouldn't."

"But –"

Carlisle's eyes were frozen chards of emerald and gold-tinged jade. "Let it go, Aro!" he snapped wearily. "She is not for me."

Perhaps if he said it enough his traitorous heart would believe the lie.

TBC...


	5. The Gauntlet

**Disclaimer: _The Twilight Saga _and all associated characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer and Little, Brown & Company. Any and all original characters are the property of the author. No profit is being made from this story.**

**A/N: I know it has been a ridiculously long time and that this Chapter will most likely not meet your expectations, but I promise that you won't have to wait as long as you did for the story to continue, and that this Chapter _does _serve a purpose.**

**X-X-X-X-X**

******"Master, is it strange that the only time I feel truly alive is when I wear your collar?"**

******X-X-X-X-X**

**V: THE GAUNTLET**

**March 2004**

"What is she _doing_ with him? He's not even fit to lick her boots," Alice Cullen muttered darkly. On the other side of the crowded room Royce King was holding court, loud and obnoxious as ever, his girlfriend, the beautiful Rosalie Hale, increasingly more miserable at his side.

It was Spring Break and while their mother and her fiancé were in the Mediterranean, the McKinley girls had decided to throw one of their legendary parties in their family's penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue. It was a rite of passage, taking place on the first weekend of the school-holiday every year since the eldest sister Tanya was a freshman at Sacred Heart. Anyone who was anyone was expected to show up before jetting off to the scene of that year's teenage debauchery.

The Cullens were no exception.

"There are those who would say that they're perfect for one another. After all, like Royce, Rosalie is precisely as she appears – a bitch wrapped up in beautiful packaging," her brother Edward replied idly, watching as the girl in question twirled her blonde hair around a finger, eyes vacant as ever.

Beside him, his twin's eyes narrowed at his insult. "Are those the same people who think you're a pompous, judgemental prick?"

Edward arched a brow and pointedly ignored her.

"You don't know her, Edward," Alice continued testily, crossing her arms over her chest, the multitude of bracelets on her slender wrists jingling in her ire.

"So there _is_ a God," was all he said before taking his leave, off to find a quiet corner where he could sit with his iPod and listen to Debussy in peace.

Nothing could change the fact that Alice was right – Royce King was indeed not good enough for Rose; he was no good at all. He was vain, something that, at least on the surface, seem to characterise his long-time girlfriend. But he alone possessed a selfish streak a mile wide, highly resentful of the fact that, through her friendship with Alice, Rosalie was now moving in even more exalted circles than he. In Rochester, where he and Rose were from, he was likened to a Prince, an attitude he took everywhere else he went. But his own efforts to ingratiate himself into the Cullen kids' inner circle had fallen flat so, it was a continual blow to his quite sizable ego to see the girl who had been under his thumb for so long fit in with them so well.

"I don't think it works that way, darlin'. No matter how hard you stare, he's not gonna burst into flames."

Alice blushed prettily at Jasper's teasing voice in her ear. She had an enormous crush on her brother's roommate, even as she acknowledged it was hopeless – he would never see her as anything but Emmett's quirky little sister. "More's the pity," she said instead.

Jasper chuckled at the murderous look in her kohl-lined eyes. "Want me to go rescue her?"

"Yes," she replied readily, but tempered her eagerness with a frown. "But that'll just make things worse." Aside from the grief Royce and his cronies would most likely cause, Rose herself would most likely refuse their help. Her friend was well and truly trapped in what she was sure was an abusive relationship sanctioned by Rose's self-serving and social-climbing parents. Alice heaved an angry sigh, "I should just leave it alone."

Jasper's eyes narrowed in turn as he focused on Alice's friend. He remembered her from the night of the Christmas party. Deceptively vapid, she had been full of sassy charm and surprising wit. Tonight, though, her mood was as grey as her dress and, he realised with a frown, dragging her sweet friend down into the Doldrums with her.

A flash of gold and copper from the corner of his eye momentarily stole his attention and, before he could process the wisdom of the action, he reached out and snagged the passing girl's slender wrist, forgetting all about Rose's predicament.

"Miz Clearwater," Jasper said with that slow and sexy Southern drawl. "You've been avoiding me all night," he slipped a tumbler from her grasp, bringing it up to his mouth and tasting some of the McKinley's finest scotch. He had it bad for this girl, he realised with an inner grin, and there was unfinished business to attend to before the night was through.

Leah shifted those gold and silver eyes to his and the power there was a one-two punch he could not evade. She arched an eyebrow in the face of this boldness. She turned to Alice with a friendly smile, ignoring his comment, "Who're we giving the fish-eye to?"

Introduced to Leah earlier that evening when Emmett had bundled her and her friend Bella into the limo, Alice was still wondering how on Earth it was possible for a girl to make a gold-sequined micro-mini dress, leather jacket and unlaced combat boots not only sexy but effortlessly cool. Leah was sex on legs, exuding an earthy sensuality as easy as breathing and Jasper, it seemed, was under her spell. And the longer the seconds stretched on as if Alice was not even there and they were the only two people in the world, it clear he was not alone.

But, it wouldn't pay to count all the ways she was out of her league, so instead she pointed to Royce, smiling reluctantly at the distaste on Leah's face.

"Oh. _Him_," she scowled.

"You know him?" Jasper asked, not entirely surprised. After all, Leah drew men to her like moths to a flame, present company included.

"Yeah, unfortunately Bella and I met him in Seattle last year."

He had been with his father at one of her mother's showings and hadn't been able to take his eyes off her. She remembered that her life had been falling down around her ears, her body-language all but screaming "Back off!" but he hadn't taken the hint.

"_Royce King II." He said it proudly with a shit-eating grin that appeared practiced from birth, as if she should not only recognise his name but be utterly impressed_.

"He _does_ get around," snipped Alice.

Leah's nose wrinkled at the memory, "He's the reason there's a Hazmat suit – he's toxic."

Jasper chuckled and Leah's stock went way up in Alice's book at that astute observation.

"Where _is _our darlin' Cookie-Girl, by the way?" he asked.

"Probably plotting an escape route," Leah replied knowingly. "Last time I checked Emmett had her on a leash."

He chuckled as he caught sight of her by their friend's side. Given the nature of an Upper-East side rager she was perhaps safest with Emmett, but he was a popular guy and where he was invariably was where a whole slew of acquaintances and wanna-be acquaintances.

Bella looked ready to bolt.

"I'll fix her a drink and try to distract her with my charm. I think I might have better luck with her than with your friend, Pixie," he said to Alice with a gallant wink.

"So," Leah drawled as they both enjoyed the excellent view of Jasper walking away, "how long have you had a thing for Jasper?"

"What?" Alice choked, blushing furiously.

"Your face is an open book, honey, especially to someone like me." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her minuscule clutch and lit one.

"Someone like you?"

"A girl," Leah chuckled, exhaling. "You light up like a neon sign when he's next to you. Anyone could see it."

"Except Jasper," Alice muttered, still embarrassed. "Though, I suppose I should be grateful for small favours."

"He's a guy," Leah said simply, "being a clueless moron's practically part of his genetic makeup."

The younger girl chuckled reluctantly.

"Chin up, chica," Leah said kindly, despite her saucy wink, "I won't tell. Besides, we're just having fun. You can have him when I'm done."

She sauntered away to one of the many bar stations, drawing close to Jasper's side.

A sharp tug of longing bloomed in Alice's chest as she watched him pluck the cigarette from Leah's fingers and bring it to his mouth. She was too far away, thankfully, to hear their conversation over the din of the party.

"First my drink and now my cigarette? You sure don't mind sharing bodily fluids do you?" Leah teased.

His eyes darkened, but his smile was a quick flash of white in his tanned face. "Definitely wouldn't mind sharing yours... _again_." he replied pointedly.

Her eyes widened. "Well, _that_ was direct."

Jasper shrugged.

"Besides, I thought I'd bruised your heart beyond repair," she added, referring to Bella and Emmett's conversation.

"Emmett tends to exaggerate. Besides, that's part of the thrill. I seem to find the prickly and disinterested fascinating."

Leah drew her bottom lip between her teeth and regarded him seriously. "I'm not disinterested."

His smile this time was slow and full of devilish promise.

Alice felt the prick of irrational tears in her eyes as she watched Jasper take Leah's hand and disappear into the crowd. Suddenly she no longer felt charitable toward the gorgeous older girl anymore, no matter how cool or understanding about her crush she had been.

She heaved a heavy sigh.

Rose was miserable; _she _was miserable and, though she knew that it was more than ill-advised given her combative history with Royce, she crossed the room to her friend. They might as well be miserable together.

X-X-X-X-X

Royce King II did not like Alice Cullen, either – mostly because she was a _Cullen_. Not only that, but she was now Rosalie Hale's best friend and it was evermore clear that her opinion meant something and that something was becoming increasingly dominant since he started at Princeton lastfall. They now walked a tight-rope of emotions, fighting a constant tug-of-war of influence with Rose caught in the middle.

Take this weekend, for example. In the blue-blood-drenched hallows of the Upper East Side, the King name meant next-to-nothing. The mere thought burned. So, he wasn't even here in his own right but because of his eager-to-please roommate Riley Biers who happened to have had the geographic fortune to attend Collegiate. As Alice's best friend, Rose had received an embossed invitation from Tanya McKinley herself, while _he _had been forced to practically _crash_ as Riley's 'plus-one' because she hadn't even told him she was going!

Alice's influence was written all over that. The lying bitch!

Shades of the stubborn, opinionated girl Rose had been in the initial stages of their relationship (back when she'd been operating under the delusion that _she _was the one with the power) were re-emerging. He could feel his hold over her steadily eroding as the months he was away from her side passed.

He took yet another sip of truly excellent vodka, his temper and ego stewing violently inside as he surveyed the bane of his existence from across the room. His fingers tightened reflexively around Rose's ribbon waist and he could actually feel her trembling beneath the silk. Her shock on catching sight of him earlier that evening had been a thing of beauty. All colour seemed to leach from her face and the laugh she had been bestowing on Emmett Cullen had stuttered and died in her throat.

She had immediately moved over to his side. As well she should have!

The memory was a welcome reminder that he was not entirely powerless after all.

Alice may have temporarily won the battle, but the night was yet young and there was plenty of time left for him to win the war. He caught her eye as she manoeuvred through the crowd, presumably toward them.

He couldn't have that.

A truly sinister smile bloomed on his handsome face.

He turned to his 'friends'. "Laurent, Riley, I'm bored," he said in an unaffected tone that was anything but. "Let's go have some _real_ fun."

Riley, as expected, hopped immediately to, swaying momentarily due to the copious amount of alcohol he'd consumed. Laurent, another Collegiate alumnus and the more socially adept of the two, on the other hand actually looked annoyed. Irina had set her cap for him from the moment he stepped through the door, and so had been all over him, sitting in his lap and marvelling at his smooth dark-brown skin and long neat dreadlocks; ending up in her bed was a sure thing if he stuck around. He'd never taken Royce for a cock-block and opened his mouth to tell him as such, but the gleam in those cold blue eyes stopped him. Whatever he had planned was sure to top whatever he and MTA-2 could get up to.

"Sorry, babe," he said, pressing a kiss to her scowling mouth. "Rain-check?"

"What do you think?" she snapped.

Laurent's glare was pointed as he watched her stalk furiously away. Royce's smile only widened.

For her part, Rosalie froze. Those truly arresting violet eyes were wide and he could all but smell her fear.

"Coming, babe?" Royce held out his hand, a mockery of gallant request.

She took it.

She really had no choice.

It was past time to remind his beautiful toy just who her Master was.

TBC...


End file.
